


Side A: The Wolf and I, we share the same cold meal

by ANTchan



Series: My Head is an Animal [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate S2, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Barely Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, FSA Week, M/M, POV Outsider, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Werewolves, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4934308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a lot of things John Stilinski wants. He wants his family safe, he wants people to stop dropping violently dead in his town, and most importantly, he wants his son to stop. Lying. To him. But John can’t have everything he wants. So he’s forced to chase after his son and his almost-son and do his best to keep them safe, even if that means running into the town’s sweetheart-turned delinquent, Derek Hale, more times than he’s comfortable with.</p><p>OR the s2 AU where Sheriff Stilinski accidentally adopts a werewolf pack, and has no idea how he got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my self-indulgent McHaleinski fic! Outsider POV is one of my favorite tropes, so I had to write one myself. The full story comes in two parts, Side A (Sheriff Stilinski's POV) and Side B (Derek/Scott/Stiles' POV). The story is canon compliant until about the latter half of s2, past that it's anybody's guess really.
> 
> This is also a project for FSA week, even though it wasn't completely finished in time. As such, anon commenting has been disabled. Sorry to those who need anon to comment, for any reason. Except for That One Anon. This work is unbeta'd, so all mistakes and inconsistencies are my own.

\-----------------------------------------

 

John finally tracks him down on the far end of town, and whatever relief he feels in knowing Derek Hale isn’t haunting the old Hale House with the rest of the ghosts (again) withers upon seeing where he ended up. It’s less a rail depot and more a junkyard now, the town’s industry having dried up in the recession years ago. The sprawling complex of rails and warehouses is now a graveyard of twisted metal and crumbling concrete.

What is it with this kid and hiding out in wrecks?

He doesn’t have to search for long. Derek comes prowling out from between two of the train cars just as John ducks down the alley between the tracks. He doesn’t even appear surprised to see him, his face as stony as it was the night John had arrested him. Frankly, John is a little taken aback that Derek chose to reveal himself at all. The last time the young man had come in contact with one of the Department, he’d been on the run for murder. His short time as a fugitive doesn’t seem to have done him any good either. He’s paler than the last time John had seen him, expression more withdrawn, and a hunch to his shoulders that only speaks of pain and exhaustion. But for all of it, the look on his face is still just as steely and fierce.

“Derek,” he greets calmly, inclining his head.

“Sheriff.” There’s nothing in his tone other than stiff politeness, just the same as the last time John had spoken to him in the interrogation room. John has never met a suspect who could be so perfectly polite and so _threatening_ at the same time. Derek Hale had never raised his voice. Never cursed at John or any of his deputies or refused to answer their questions. And yet there wasn’t a single one of his deputies that felt they had the upper hand.

 _“I’ve never met a man who could make me feel respected and like I was in the room with a wild predator at the same time,”_ Tara had commented to him after releasing Hale the first time. And John… had to agree with her. There’s almost something _feral_ behind Hale’s eyes, stronger now than it ever was.

“I came to tell you that you’ve been exonerated of all charges and the manhunt’s been called off. And…” Here John sighs, scratching a nail along the line of his brow. “And to extend apologies on behalf of the department, myself, and... my boys for any undue distress this may have caused.” He grinds the words out with as much professionalism as he can muster - because the department needs to regain _some_ dignity after this fiasco.

“They’re stupid teenagers,” Derek responds dismissively. “It happens.”

“It... happens,” John parrots. “ _It happens_ \- tell me you don’t get accused of murder every other week, son. Because otherwise this shouldn’t just _happen_.”

“I don’t get accused of murder, no. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone made an assumption about the kind of person I am.” There’s a weight to his words - a resigned spite, even an _accusation_. John does his best not to react to the subtle barb.

“Well, now that this matter’s cleared up, there won’t be any reckless teenagers hanging around to accuse you of murder. So rest easy.”

He suspects Derek lets out a derisive huff, something that’s almost a cold laugh. Or tries to. The instant his body moves, he tenses, the sound getting stuck in his throat. His shoulders hunch in what’s clearly pain.

“Derek? You alright, son?”

Derek shrinks away from his attempt to approach. There’s something wild in his eyes for the briefest instant; something that has John freezing mid-motion. In the next moment, it’s gone, replaced with an expression so guarded that John fears he’s going to bolt. There’s something more _animal_ than human in the curve of his body, like something trapped and pained and ready to lash out.

“You need to see a doctor, Derek?” he asks slowly. And isn’t surprised at all when all he gets from the young man is jerky shake of his head. There’s a feverish, manic sheen to his eyes. One that John recognizes in conjunction with the jittery shifting and the strung out tension in his shoulders. And it’s not something John ever wanted to see. “Oh, hell, son,” he sighs. “There something you should be taking?” He waits a beat to gaze pointedly at him. “Or taken something you _shouldn’t?_ ”

Derek’s brows furrow, and he just looks confused. “What?”

“I’m not going to judge, son. You’ve had a difficult month, and it’s easy to do something reckless in grief.”

“I--”

“I can’t prove you’ve used anything illegal, so I’m not going to take you in. But you need to go to wherever you’re staying and let whatever it is pass through your system. Drink some water. Lie down. Do _not_ drive home, you hear me? Call a taxi-- you know, here.” John plucks his phone from his jacket, dialing as Derek looks even more disconcerted with every passing moment. After briskly giving an address and a name, John nods as he returns the phone to his pocket. “It’s on me this time, alright? I’ll wait with you.”

“But I’m not--”

“Come on, son.” John’s learned better than to try touching him, but he holds his hands out in an approximation of herding Derek along. And, after a perturbed frown, Derek follows. John leads him out of the trainyard, to an area where a taxi might _actually_ dare to go on the Sheriff’s word. He finds a safe stoop for them both to sit on while they wait. “You can come with one of us to pick up your car tomorrow.”

Derek only watches him, the look in his eyes unreadable, lost. _Young._ He’s only twenty-two, John recalls suddenly. He’s twenty-two and he’s just lost the only remaining family he had left.

The silence is… awkward, to say the least. Derek averts his eyes and refuses to so much as glance at him for several minutes.

It’s John that breaks it, eventually. “Is there someone you can talk to?”

Hale shrugs with what has to be practiced apathy.

That settles it, then. John goes digging around in his coat pockets, muttering mutinously until he finds the small slip of card stock that he so rarely has to use. “Here,” he says, offering it to Derek. The man stares at it for a long moment, as if it’s going to leap from John’s hand and attack. John waves it at him until he takes it. “If you ever need to talk, my office is open. And my phone is always on.”

Derek holds the business card in his hands, staring intently at it until the taxi rounds the corner.

John’s surprised the innocent card doesn’t burst into flames.

“Why?” It’s the first word Derek’s said in nearly twenty minutes. John has ushered him towards the taxi, but he turns before getting in.

“I…” John flounders, crossing his arms over his chest, and admits: “I failed you and your sister in a lot of ways these past few years, son. This is the least I can do.”

Something cracks open, and Derek’s expression goes unbearably vulnerable. And then he climbs quickly into the taxi.

John watches it roll away, feeling every bit of his age in that moment. He knows, deep down, that Derek isn’t going to call. He’s probably going to throw the card in the bin the moment he’s through the door.

But John desperately wishes otherwise. “Be safe, kid,” he murmurs to the empty street.

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

_Next:  
Side A, Ch2_

_His son looks dead on his feet. That’s the first thing John  
notices after coming through the door._

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

**  
END CHAPTER 1.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is in Stiles’ room.
> 
>  _Derek Hale_ has climbed through the window into his son’s--
> 
> Nope. No. This is not happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the super self-indulgent McHaleinski fic! This chapter comes directly after the outcome of s2e04, picking up from right after the gang goes home after the episode. I always found it strange that there wasn't any lasting consequences to being essentially stung by a venomous lizard monster. Especially for Stiles' very human immune system. So this is going to illustrate that! After being paralyzed in the body shop and holding Derek up for two hours in a cold pool, he's not doing so hot.
> 
> After this chapter I will be switching to Side B of this story, to keep everything chronological. This is also the last chapter I have for this fic for FSA week. Bummer.
> 
> I want to thank everyone for showing support to this fic! I know McHaleinski isn't the big popular ship for the fandom, but even getting any feedback at all has been SO NICE.

 

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

_Before:  
Side A, Ch1_

_John finally tracks him down on the far end of town, and whatever relief he feels in knowing Derek Hale isn’t haunting the old Hale House with the rest of   the ghosts withers upon seeing where he ended up._

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

 

His son looks dead on his feet. That’s the first thing John notices after coming through the door. There’s no way he can miss it. Stiles is moving slowly around the kitchen, using only what little energy he has to, and the rest of him looking like a puppet with its strings cut. Stiles has always been pale, but tonight his skin is almost translucent - clammy and sickly and his eyes glazed over.

This coming just on the day after Stiles witnessed the horrible death of the auto mechanic, John is positive it’s due to stress. His rush of concern is permeated by hopelessness and irrational anger. At himself. At Stiles. At Tucker Cornish. At the killer. Even at _the Jeep_ , at the peak of his indiscriminate fury.

“Stiles,” he calls softly. Stiles jumps violently, as if John had fired his gun instead of called his name, and falls into the counter as his legs nearly give out. John is to him in three fast strides, grabbing him by the elbow until he steadies. His skin isn’t feverish to the touch at all, but _ice cold_. “ _Stiles_. Are you alright?”

It takes his son a few seconds to answer. _Too long_ to answer. “I-I’m okay. Just… not feeling so hot, I guess. Typical teenaged immune system, ha…” John isn’t sure what worries him more, the way he looks or the complete failure in his humor. He lifts a hand to Stiles' forehead, scowling when the boy tries to backbend away.

“What? C’mon, Dad, no, m’okay. M’not sick.”

“That, son, is the worst lie you’ve told me all year.” He ignores how quiet Stiles goes at that. His son’s behavior ever since the New Year isn’t something he wants to discuss at the moment. “You’re a little warm,” he mutters, and then nods. “Right. You’re taking ibuprofen and going straight to bed.”

“Daaaaaad.”

“Don’t ‘Daaaaaad’ me. Come on. You’re going to bed and tomorrow you’re taking a day off. I’ll call the school in the morning.” That last sentence would send any teenager into bliss. But Stiles only panics.

“ _What?_ No, Dad, I can’t miss school! I-- you know, I have to keep up with my work! And Scott, Scott needs me there, he always does, have you seen his grades lately?”

John pauses where he’s shaking the ibuprofen into his hand, and slowly turns to stare at his son. “Are you trying to convince me _not to let you stay home from school?_ ”

“Uh… yes?”

His eyes narrow. “Stiles.”

“My education is very important to me!”

“You’ve always liked learning, Stiles, but _never_ what they tried to teach you in school.”

Stiles knows he’s caught. His shoulders slump. “But uh…”

“No,” John finishes for him, voice firm. “I don’t know what you’ve got going in that brain of yours, but you are _not_ going to class tomorrow. You’re taking a day to recover. From whatever you’ve come down with, and from everything that happened last month. _And_ \--” he raises his voice as Stiles opens his mouth to argue, “--from finding Tucker Cornish yesterday.”

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut, and suddenly he’s looking everywhere _but_ at John.

He presses the pills into Stiles’ hands. “Take these, come on.” And once Stiles has, John begins the slow journey of helping him up the stairs. “Good night, son,” he says once they reach the top, patting Stiles’ shoulder before letting him go about his business. John goes back down to the living room, sits heavily onto the couch, and waits.

The footsteps above shuffle about. He hears the creak of Stiles’ desk chair.

“ _Mieszko_!” he shouts. “If you don’t get into bed I’m calling your babcia and letting _her_ look after you tomorrow!” There’s about a second’s delay, and then John can count the rush of footfalls as Stiles clumsily darts across the room and into bed.

“That’s not fair!” Stiles yells croakily back.

“Parenting is never fair, kid,” John mutters. He picks up the remote, settles in, and sighs heavily. “Especially not when you keep pulling shit like this.”

The TV is only a gentle drone, the backdrop to his spiraling thoughts as the minutes tick onward. They’re centered mostly on his son, on the lies that have been getting more and more dangerous over the past few weeks. Stiles would always find a way to make mischief and it’s only going to get worse in his teenage years. That’s something John has come to accept. But his son is showing up at crime scenes left and right, and before any of his deputies do in over half of them. He was involved in Isaac Lahey’s escape, and John doesn’t have a shadow of a doubt that he was somehow involved with Derek Hale’s run from the law _at the same time as he was accusing him of murder._

His lies are stretching thinner. But what terrifies John the most is that this time around, he seems to be protecting whoever murdered Tucker Cornish.

John knows his son is a good young man. But he is also capable of being ruthless and calculated and gray-moralled when he needs to be.

And John knows all too well what a _good man_ is capable of when he thinks he’s above the law.

John isn’t sure what he hates himself for more: thinking his son is in league with a murderer; or that if John had been _around_ a little more, he might’ve been able to stop it.

The temptation to drink surges up for a brief, frightening instant.

“You’d be so much better at this, Claudia,” he whispers.

He’s saved from sinking into melancholy when his phone buzzes in his pocket. John has half a mind not to answer it, until he spies Melissa’s name on the ID. He knows she should be just coming home from her shift, and it’s unusual for her to call him so soon after. “Mel?” he asks, bringing the phone to his ear.

“H-Hey! John. Okay, I’m trying not to overreact or…” Her voice wavers, high and fast, and John is already on his feet.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got home and… John, there was someone climbing out of Scott’s window.” There’s a shaking breath in his ear. “I tried to tell myself it was Scott. Or some… some boy sneaking out. But if that was a teenager, that was a _big_ teenager and… Scott’s asleep upstairs. He’s asleep and there was someone in his room.”

John’s heart leaps into his throat. “Is Scott okay?”

“He’s still asleep. I didn’t… I just went in to check on him. I don’t think anything was… but someone was still here and I don’t know where he went.”

“I’m coming over,” he answers her unasked question. “Lock the doors and sit tight, okay?”

“...Okay. Okay, _thank you,_ John.”

“Don’t thank me just yet, now. I’ll be over in--” There’s a creak in the floorboards upstairs. John goes still. He wants to believe it's just the house settling. Or Stiles trying to sneak to his desk. He desperately _hopes_ it’s the latter, because there’s no denying the the rhythmic creaks are footsteps overhead. “I’ll be over in five minutes, Mel,” he finishes calmly. He waits for her to hang up first, and then slowly goes about gathering his service weapon and badge. He makes for the door, opens it, and peers critically at the ceiling as he shuts it again.

The second floor is silent.

John doubles back, footsteps light and quick as he heads for the stairs. The creaky steps are easily avoided on the way up. He has his gun ready at his side when he slips down the hall towards Stiles’ room. The only sounds he can hear are his son’s not-quite-snores, but that does little to reassure him.

He nudges the door open silently, holding his breath, preparing himself for whatever he might find.

Derek Hale crouching beside his son’s bed, a hand on Stiles’ outstretched arm, is not one of the possibilities he was picturing. His head is bowed and in shadow, but his stance is tense, and completely still.

Derek Hale is in Stiles’ room.

 _Derek Hale_ has climbed through the window into his son’s--

Nope. No. This is not happening.

John clenches his jaw, and raises his gun just an inch from his side. “ _Derek_ ,” he says sharply.

The young man recoils, hand dropping away from Stiles as he sways away from the bed and to his feet. The moonlight hits his eyes as he turns, making them almost spark, before he falls completely back into shadow with his back to the window. The cut of his silhouette is ( _should be_ ) threatening. Shit, it looks like Derek’s doubled in muscle since the last time John had seen him (and again John’s mind wanders to any number of steroid and narcotic cocktails that could cause that).

“Sheriff.”

It’s hard to find him threatening when John can hear the barely concealed waver in his voice.  That’s all it takes for John to see not a troubled, guarded young man, but the same frightened _boy_ that had sunk listlessly into his sister’s embrace after their entire lives had gone up in smoke.

Damnit.

He jerks his head to the side in a silent command, and steps out of the doorway. Derek slowly, almost _meekly_ obeys, angling his body away as he squeezes past him out of Stiles’ room. They march back downstairs in strained silence. If Derek is actually frightened of what’s happening, he doesn’t show it. His pace doesn’t even falter once, even as John brushes past him towards the door. His face is carefully blank. But his eyes flick down to the gun still in John’s hand.

John lets him sweat it out for a minute. He’s not even ashamed of it.

“Do I even want to know,” he says evenly, “why in the _blue hell_ you snuck into my _underaged son’s_ room in the middle of the night?”

The mask finally cracks, fear washing over Derek’s face. Which is _good_. He should be afraid.

John holsters his side arm, and folds his arms across his chest. “Well?” he prompts when Derek doesn’t answer.

“I…” If he were anyone else, John would say he shuffles his feet. On Derek, however, he looks more like a cornered animal searching for an exit. “I just wanted to make sure they were alright,” he says vaguely.

“You-- _they_ \--” John heaves a sigh. “ _They_ meaning _Scott,_ I’m assuming?”

Derek nods minutely.

“And you would be the reason Melissa called me in a panic because she saw someone climbing out of _her_ underaged son’s window?”

Another nod.

“To make sure they were alright. And _why_ wouldn’t they be alright, Derek?”

This Derek doesn’t dignify with an answer at all. He’s stonily, _infuriatingly_ silent. John’s ire rises a few notches. He pulls the door open and gestures towards it. “ _Out_ ,” he demands. If someone as threatening as Derek can look chastised, he does a close approximation of it. His shoulders hunch just the slightest bit more as he slinks past John onto the porch. “Do not _ever_ let me catch you pulling something like this again, son. You hear me?” Derek won’t meet his eyes, and the rush of satisfaction that brings is a little hollow. “If you want to speak to either of them, you can use the front door like everyone else.”

And now Derek just looks confused. John points towards the street. “Now go. Go on.”

And he does, glancing at John over his shoulder as he slinks away. John waits until he’s out of sight to move. He leans against the door, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “I don’t even know where to start,” he mutters to himself. “Not a clue.”

At a loss, he wanders back inside to call Melissa.

 

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

_Next:  
Side B, Ch1_

_The world swims back into fuzzy, pain-lined focus; which is the worst thing Stiles can think of._

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

**END CHAPTER 2.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the course of the next week, John is approached not by one, but three sets of adults worried about the sudden and potentially dangerous behavioral changes in their respective teenagers. It’s the kind of parental minefield that John and his predecessors have fielded in the past, but have always had to politely ignore. Teenagers, by definition, have always been prone to being secretive, sometimes rebellious, and a source of parental stress. And unless anything actually illegal is going on, there’s nothing John can do to meet these concerns accept lend a polite ear and reassure that good, old-fashioned communication might be the best option.
> 
> But this time, things are a little different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! In an effort to make reading this fic (in conjunction with Side B) I've done a little restructuring of the the chapters. This chapter used to be the other half of chapter 2. Over today and tomorrow I'll be doing some tinkering with the chapters, so please bear with me. There IS a brand new chapter in Side B coming at the end of this. Thank you to everyone who's shown this fic so much love! It brightens my day every time I think about it. :)

_\------------------------------------------------------------  
_

_Before:  
_ _Side B, Ch1_

_The world swims back into fuzzy, pain-lined focus; which is the worst thing Stiles can think of._

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

 

Over the course of the next week, John is approached not by one, but  _ three _ sets of adults worried about the sudden and potentially dangerous behavioral changes in their respective teenagers. It’s the kind of parental minefield that John and his predecessors have fielded in the past, but have always had to politely ignore. Teenagers, by definition, have always been prone to being secretive, sometimes rebellious, and a source of parental stress. And unless anything  _ actually illegal  _ is going on, there’s nothing John can do to meet these concerns accept lend a polite ear and reassure that good, old-fashioned communication might be the best option.

But this time, things are a little different.

Thomas and Loretta Reyes were the first to come to him, looking haggard and distressed. They spin the tale of their withdrawn, but passionate and exceptionally bright daughter who’s been living with severe epilepsy since childhood. They express their worries about the new drug trial that Erica entered into, which has shown miraculous results. But since beginning the new drug regime, their daughter has gone through drastic changes in behavior. Dressing provocatively, refusing to communicate where she’s going or who she’s with, leaving the house at increasingly odd hours, and withholding all information about the drug trial and who’s running it. 

Vernon Boyd III and his mother Anita are the next to approach, when he’s off duty. The small talk dies off quickly, replaced by tense silence. They don’t ask for help, but fairness, should their boy, Vernon Boyd IV, be caught out after curfew. The story he manages to get out of them is much the same: sudden aloof attitude towards them, more confrontational, home less. They describe Vernon as a quiet, respectful boy before the change. Hard-working and disciplined, with few close friends. 

A visit from Isaac Lahey’s social worker is the last straw. It’s during their weekly meeting (as Isaac’s situation is still crucial to the case involving his father’s death) that she mentions the foster family Isaac had been placed with is having… difficulties.

“What kind of difficulties?” John presses, feeling a headache building behind his eyes.

She purses her lips. “Most of it has been standard for teenagers in Isaac’s situation. A general lack of trust for them. He doesn’t want to be there. He’s lashing out. But they’re not even sure he’s sleeping there anymore.”

There’s a rule about these things. That everything is coincidence until it’s a pattern, and then it’s something worth investigating. It’s not so much the fact that three teenagers are having problems at home but the timing of all three of them that worries John.

Well, that, and that all three of them are in Stiles and Scott’s class.

Three is enough for a pattern. But with his boys included, it’s  _ five  _ and that isn’t just enough for investigation. That’s enough to drag someone in.

So he puts the word out through his informants. Or as they’re better known: the vicious gossip circle of Beacon Hills. Say what you want about it, but small town gossip is faster than any undercover operation John has ever seen. All it takes is a casual conversation with Violet Whittiker, the right amount of parental concern, and the promise of a fine bottle of whiskey. And so it comes as no surprise when, a mere few days later, he gets his answer.

The answer is, apparently, Derek Hale. Who’s been seen picking the three teenagers up from school.

Which also isn’t much of a surprise, but far less of a welcome one. 

John tries not to jump to conclusions. But he’s seen and heard  _ too much _ of how things that even vaguely look like this end.

Which is why he finds himself waiting for Derek Hale’s showy Camaro to pass by one afternoon once the high school has let out. He catches a glimpse of three others in the car as it passes, flicks on his sirens and pulls out onto the road behind him. John waits in his cruiser after they’ve safely pulled over, watching the silhouettes bobbing in the back window.

He steels himself the entire walk up, half expecting Derek to run like a fugitive all over again. But the driver side window only lowers as he nears, revealing Derek’s stony face. Any clue to his expression is hidden by the dark sunglasses over his eyes.

“Derek.”

“Sheriff,” he greets slowly. There’s actual hesitation in his voice this time. Obviously, the young man hasn’t forgotten their last meeting. Good.

“You know why I pulled you over?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Hm.” Vernon Boyd is in the passenger seat, peering at John  with a guarded expression to match. And as he stares longer, a young blonde girl that can only be Erica Reyes peers over the top of Boyd’s seat, and Isaac around Derek’s shoulder. “How about you step out of the car so we can talk, son?” John requests.

Derek hesitates. John didn’t expect otherwise. But he does eventually click his seatbelt open and move to get out.

“Derek,” Boyd murmurs. John isn’t sure if it’s a plea, a warning, or a question.

“Stay in the car,” is Derek’s only answer. Anything else is said in long, intense looks. John stands back, observing the silent communication. The command in Derek’s voice definitely doesn’t give the impression of casual, innocent friendship. His eyes narrow as the man exits the car, only jerking his head to direct him away from it. Once they’re out of earshot of the car, John turns to him, mouth drawn in a hard frown.

“What do you think you’re doing, son?”

Derek’s face is carefully blank. “Taking my friends home from school.”

“Your… friends. Right. Because that’s exactly what this is.”

“It is.”

“No.” John gestures back to the Camaro. “That, son - I don’t know what that is, but I highly doubt it’s  _ friendship _ . Listen, I’ve got spree killers running the streets, a group of gun-toting whackjobs shooting up the Preserve and the industrial sectors  _ that I still can’t track down _ , and teenagers suddenly acting suspicious. You know what that looks like, son?”

Derek shrugs one shoulder. He seems to be aiming for uncaring and cold, but all it does is make him look defensive and sullen. Not unlike the teenagers in his car. 

“To anyone else, this looks like gangs or drugs. And don’t even get me started on the  _ possible sex crime  _ happening here, after finding you in Stiles’ room.”

It’s genuine horror - and not guilt, thank god - that replaces the indifferent mask. 

Good. 

“It’s not--” There’s urgency in Derek’s tone, before he stops and seems to reign it in. “There’s nothing illegal happening here, Sheriff. They’re my friends.”

“For some reason I don’t see you being  _ friends _ with teenagers, Derek.  _ Stupid teenagers _ . Isn’t that what you said?”

“I’m helping them,” Derek retorts, voice growing sharper. There’s a tic going in his jaw now.

“Helping them how?”

“They needed someone. To talk to. To make them feel like they belong.” And John wants to  _ laugh _ . Because Derek Hale  _ spreading emotional stability  _ out of the goodness of his heart? He’s never heard a more unbelievable lie. “And I need them too.”

“ _ That _ ,” John admits. “That last part is the only part of that I’ll believe.” He immediately regrets saying it. Because Derek has  _ that look  _ on his face again. Like John has blindsided him and he doesn’t know what to do. And John  _ really  _ needs to stop putting such a vulnerable expression on the boy’s face, because it’s not good for either of them.

“Take them home, Derek,” he amends quickly. “Make sure they at least eat dinner with their families. And for god’s sake, tell Isaac to sleep at his foster home before his social worker thinks he ran away.”

He’s ashamed to say he  _ retreats _ like fires of Hell are on his ass, rather than a heart-to-heart with a highly suspicious young man. He doesn’t look at Derek as he climbs back into his cruiser and pulls away. It’s only when he’s far down the street that he risks a glance in the rearview mirror, and cringes upon finding Derek watching him, still standing right where John left him.

He wonders if he should be ashamed for not bringing Derek down to the station, when every instinct he has is screaming that something isn’t right. But, for the life of him, he can’t put his finger on what that something is.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------  


_ Next:  
_ _ Side A, Ch4 _

_ John doesn’t see Derek in the weeks following, and he no longer gets approached by concerned parents. But Beacon Hills is anything but quiet.  
_

\------------------------------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 3.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn’t see Derek in the weeks following, and he no longer gets approached by concerned parents. But Beacon Hills is anything but quiet. Bodies continue to drop. And the boys continue to be secretive, ending in the kidnapping of Jackson Whittemore and the end of John’s patience. By the time he’s asked to turn in his badge, even his anger has fizzled out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! In an effort to make reading this fic (in conjunction with Side B) I've done a little restructuring of the the chapters. Over today and tomorrow I'll be doing some tinkering with the chapters, so please bear with me. There IS a brand new chapter in Side B coming at the end of this. Thank you to everyone who's shown this fic so much love! It brightens my day every time I think about it. :)
> 
> This chapter coincides with the end of s02e08 ("Raving").

\------------------------------------------------------------

 _Before:  
_ _Side A, Ch3_

_Over the course of the next week, John is approached not by one, but three sets of adults worried about the sudden and potentially dangerous behavioral changes in their respective teenagers._

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

John doesn’t see Derek in the weeks following, and he no longer gets approached by concerned parents. But Beacon Hills is anything but quiet. Bodies continue to drop. And the boys continue to be secretive, ending in the kidnapping of Jackson Whittemore and the _end_ of John’s patience. By the time he’s asked to turn in his badge, even his anger has fizzled out.

Which is why seeing Stiles at the scene of the next killing, one during an illegal rave no less, doesn’t elicit rage, but just cold, bitter knowing. He catches Stiles’ arm as he tries to pass through the crowd of rapidly dispersing partygoers. His son jumps as if John were someone else entirely, his free arm flying blindly in a counterattack. It’s actually a good one, and John has to lean out of the way to avoid getting an elbow in the ribs. Genuine fear flashes through Stiles’ eyes in the instant they land on him, and it makes John’s chest _burn_ . What is Stiles so _afraid_ of?

The fear closes off once Stiles recognizes him, but it’s useless because John has already _seen_. “D-Dad?”

He can’t even muster enough anger to scold him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Scott’s?” he says, voice low and flat.

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be… uh… not at work-- a crime scene?”

“I’d ask you that, son, but this isn’t even the third time I’ve found _you_ at one.”

Stiles flinches, his eyes flickering towards the ground. The fingers of his free hand tap, tap, tap along the outside of his thigh. _Fidgeting._ His mouth twitches, chewing over the words that are about to spew out. _Lies._

The thing about Stiles is that, when he lies outright, he’s _awful_ at it. When he’s asked a direct question that he can’t deflect or subvert, he’s worst liar John has ever seen. He can see the awful excuse forming even before he opens his mouth. But give him room to verbally dance around the truth, and Stiles is a master of deception. And for that reason, John lets go of Stiles’ arm in favor of holding up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t. Whatever lie you’re about to tell, I don’t want to hear it.” The words come out with far more bitterness than John intends.

Stiles looks as if he’s just slapped him. “Dad, I…”

He _wants_ to be angry. He wants to feel anything other than resignation and hollow and _guilt_ . But John’s _never_ wanted to be the cause of Stiles’ pain. “No, look, just… are you hurt?”

“What? No, no, Dad, I’m fine.”

John briefly considers debating what Stiles considers _fine_ , but decides against it. So far in whatever this is, challenging Stiles on every white lie has only resulted distance and even more secrets. And John is just plain _tired_ of fighting. “Okay. Are you here with someone? Did you bring the Jeep?” He’s not dressed for a party. He hasn’t even changed out of the clothes he came home in, by the look of it. And Stiles, no matter how John jokes about it, understands the concept of how to dress. His sense of fashion is a little… questionable, but Stiles is at _least_ obsessive enough to change his clothes before meeting some girl at a party.

Or some boy.

John… John still doesn’t know how to handle that particular deflection of Stiles’, or even if it was one.

“Y-Yeah I… met some friends here. Jeep’s just a-around the block and…” Stiles trails off abruptly. “Uh-- yeah, so, Dad, I’m just gonna go. Sorry for not-- and for-- yeah, just gonna go.” The rest of it comes out in one dizzying rush of air, his voice cracking on the words. He’s doing a laughable job at _not_ looking at something over John’s shoulder, too.

“Seriously?” John mutters.

His son’s eyes widen. “Wait, Dad, no--” He lunges just as John turns, and only manages to swipe uselessly at his jacket.

And there is Derek Hale, standing just out of sight of the crowd. Of fucking _course_ it’s Derek Hale. But John doesn’t have time to call Stiles on his lies - that “some friends” is _not_ an acceptable substitute for “a man five and a half years my senior who I’ve sworn I don’t know _that well_ ” - because there’s something far more alarming to focus on.

Scott is hanging limp in his arms. Derek has him cradled against his body, one arm under his knees and the other supporting his upper body, holding Scott to his chest. They’re far enough back into the alley that Scott’s face is obscured, and even more so because he’s got it lolling against Derek’s throat.

“So Scott’s uh, obviously had a bit too much to drink,” Stiles is chattering behind him. He’s edging around John, not even being subtle about his attempt to escape. “Sorry! I know, it was dumb. And it was dumb of us to sneak out to an unsanctioned rave. But hey, we had Derek come with us to keep us out of trouble. Semi-responsible adult and all that. So I’m just gonna… drive Scott home, _‘kaybyeDad!_ ” Stiles takes his chance, scurrying the final few inches around him and dashing away. He doesn’t give John a chance to call after him - to yell, to scold, to do anything, really.

Not that John has any idea what to say. Not anymore.

Instead his his focus is drawn to the way Stiles’ hand lands in the crook of Derek’s elbow as he passes him, no hesitation in physically pulling the man further down the alley, and to how close he’s standing to the man. Derek seems to notice it too. His expression is tense, even as he meets John’s eyes through the crowd of passing deputies and onlookers. He looks sick, even heavily draped in shadow, like the look of a man who knows exactly how much shit he’s in. And then he’s pulled away by Stiles’ insistent tugs, the three of them disappearing down the alley.

John watches them go, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth grind together. For the first time in days, the defeated chill has given way to _anger._

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 _Next:  
_ _Side B, Ch2_

 _Something’s wrong with Scott. There are hunters running around shooting up the alleys at everything that moved and lizardy revenge monsters chasing them down and ripping through walls and_ **_people_ ** _and Stiles has done some freaky magic shit and his dad has showed up with that disappointed look on his face and_ **_something is wrong with Scott._ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 4.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you… _living here?_ ” 
> 
> John can see the walls go up in the way Derek’s shoulders go tense and his jaw tightens into a guarded scowl. He says nothing, but then again he doesn’t need to. Thunder rumbles overhead.
> 
> Shit. The kid’s been _living in this place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final bit of this restructuring! Babcie Stilinski and Wawrzaszek make their appearance in this chapter! There's also a tiny bit of Polish, which I don't not speak even a bit of, and have tried to keep it to a minimum cover that fact, but there are a few phrases. For translations, just hover over the text! If anyone who speaks Polish reads this and finds something horribly wrong, don't be afraid to tell me! Thanks for reading!

\------------------------------------------------------------

 _Before:  
_ _Side B, Ch2_

 _Something’s wrong with Scott. There are hunters running around shooting up the alleys at everything that moved and lizardy revenge monsters chasing them down and ripping through walls and_ **_people_ ** _and Stiles has done some freaky magic shit and his dad has showed up with that disappointed look on his face and_ **_something is wrong with Scott._ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

He lets the rage brew into the next day, fueled by his son’s guilty avoidance and the silent remorse - _pity_ \- of his deputies. Tara’s been appointed Acting Sheriff in his stead, but she’s loyal and careful, and keeps him updated on the murders as much as she’s able. From her, it’s not pity - only concern and a quiet fury to match his own at this point. Things have been bad for them before. But this entire shitshow takes the proverbial cake.

So by the time he’s tracked Derek back to the train depot, the last place John knew Derek to lurk, John has worked himself up into a barely checked storm. It matches the day’s mood well enough. A thunderstorm has rolled in, leaving sheets of rain whipping between the lines of empty train cars. The Camaro isn’t anywhere to be found, not like the last time he was here in search of the young man. But there’s a warehouse further in with its door fixed, not falling off its hinges or rusted shut like the rest.

Just the short walk up to the door has him soaked. He wrenches it open, brushing the water from his face once he’s inside. The warehouse is a maze of rusted out train cars and service vehicles. There’s rain dripping down from the ceiling, filling the dark warehouse with a cacophony of metallic pings along and hellish rattling as the wind assaults the building. It’s a disgusting place. His hand flits down to where his holster usually sits, and is suddenly glad he had to turn side arm in. Having a hand on his weapon while angry is the last thing he wants. Even in a place like this.

“ _Derek!_ ” he shouts over the din. He squints into the gloom, searching out even the slightest movement. When there’s nothing but raindrops and swaying dust, John weaves between the cars and repair equipment. His boots splash through gathering puddles on the cracked concrete. He’s not being subtle. He doesn’t mean to be.

“ _DEREK!_ ”

 _Finally,_ he gets proof he’s in the right place. There’s a shuffling off to his right, a sound that doesn’t harmonize with other noises in the building. It’s not something knocked over. It’s not a skittering of a wild animal. It’s the shuffling of someone moving. As soon as John hears it, his fury ramps right back up. He’s found Derek Hale, and he’s going to give that troublemaker a piece of his mind.

How _dare_ he take those boys to that party! How dare he think, even for an _instant,_ that it was appropriate for a _grown-ass man_ to take two underaged boys to a rave and let them get drunk - or _worse_ . On any night, the possibilities are enough to give John nightmares. But on _that night,_ when a girl ended up dead and others injured - that’s enough for a lifetime of nightmares. And _Derek Hale_ seems to be the cause of all of it.

He pinpoints the train car the sounds are coming from just as the rusted door screeches open. It reveals Derek, overcast in the dim light filtering through the warehouse. He’s wearing old jeans and a tank top that’s way too tight on him (oh, a young man’s vanity), with his hair rumpled as if he’s just woken up. Just looking at him makes John pause.

He’s been sleeping, that much is easy to see. His clothes are twisted around him and there’s red patches on his arms and face - too easy to see with his shockingly pale skin, even in this light. But… here?

The car behind him is shrouded in shadow. But John can barely make out the shape of a mattress on the floor. Seeing it has his stomach sinking into his feet.

“Are you… _living here?_ ”

John can see the walls go up in the way Derek’s shoulders go tense and his jaw tightens into a guarded scowl. He says nothing, but then again he doesn’t need to. Thunder rumbles overhead.

Shit. The kid’s been _living in this place._

Every word he’d been thinking of flies out of John’s head. He flounders, only for his jaw to click shut. “You know what? No.” John shakes his head. “ _No_. You got a bag back there?” Derek doesn’t answer fast enough for his impatience to endure. “Get your things - whatever you have back there. Come on.”

The young man doesn’t budge, only stares at him as if he’s chewing over his words. “Am I under arrest?” he says at last.

“ _What?_ No. Shit, _no_ , Derek. Get your stuff and come on.”

“I don’t…”

“Look, you can either stay _here_ … or you can get somewhere warm. Your choice.”

It takes him a few more moments, but eventually Derek _does_ move. He backs slowly into the train car, looking almost sinister as he’s engulfed in shadow. It’s… probably unintentional. Derek just has this naturally intense look that makes menacingly skulking in the shadows easy for him. At least, that’s what John tells himself while he waits outside the train. He can barely see Derek moving around inside, gathering things. It doesn’t take him more than a moment or two to return, jacket on and only an old duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

John has a sinking feeling everything Derek brought with him to Beacon Hills is in that bag.

“That everything?”

“Yes, sir.” If Derek were anyone else, John would call his answer _meek_. But on Derek it’s that carefully polite tone, purposefully reining in whatever’s always been lurking just below the surface.

“Alright,” John says. “Come on, son.” He lets Derek walk beside him out of the warehouse rather than lead him, or walk behind him like he would with a suspect. It’s a conscious decision on John’s part - Derek’s already spooked. He doesn’t need to make him _bolt_. He even hovers by the car, ignoring the pouring rain around him, as if he expects John to usher him into the back all over again.  John doesn’t miss the suspicious glance he gets when he opens the passenger door for Derek. But Derek climbs in anyway, and John rushes around the cruiser to escape the rain.

In the better light of the outdoors, Derek is just a shade off from sickly pale. It startles John when he glances over at the man after starting the car. He’s too pale and despite the fact that John clearly woke him up, the bags under his eyes don’t tell a story of consistent or decent rest. In this light, the shadows on his face don’t make him look dangerous; and the three-day stubble he has going does nothing to hide the sharp, severe lines of his cheekbones. His face looks thinner than John has seen him yet, even for all the miraculous - suspicious - bulking up Derek has done in the past _month._ Now John wonders when Derek’s last substantial meal was.

The thought makes his gut twist.

“How long’ve you been staying here, Derek?” he asks.

Derek shrugs. “A few weeks.”

“And before that?”

That answer takes a longer to answer, and only when Derek realizes that John isn’t going to drive until he gets one. “The house,” he sighs.

“... _Shit._ ”

“I guess.”

John rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. ...Okay.” He throws the car into gear, and backs them out into the main thoroughfare of the trainyard. “Where’s your car?”

“Parking garage.” The exact location is noticeably absent.

“Alright…” He glances sidelong at Derek, taking in how he’s all but hunched against the door. As if he’s considering tucking and rolling out onto the road. “Right.” John slides his phone from his pocket, frowning at the clock on the dash. He hits the speed dial, and brings it to his ear.

After three rings, it picks up with a click. _“Johnny!”_ is the bright greeting his receives.

“Mama Eliza,” he returns warmly. In his peripherals, he sees Derek jump, and turn to him with wide eyes. He grins. “How are you?”

_“Good, good.”_

“Joints okay in this rain?”

 _“Oh, don’t treat me as if I’m a shrivelled old woman, Johnny.”_ After a moment, she huffs. _“I had some tea this morning. It helped ward off the aches.”_

A distant shout comes over the phone next. _“Is that Janek?”_

_“Yes, Celina.”_

_“Ah,_ **_moje słoneczko!_ ** _Are he and Mieszko coming to dinner, Ela?”_

_“I don’t know, I haven’t asked him. Johnny, are you and Mieszko coming to dinner?”_

John fights not to laugh. “I am, Mama Eliza. I’m bringing a guest; not Stiles.”

_“A guest? That’s a rare event. One of your Deputies? A new one?”_

“No, no. Just a guest. That alright?”

 _“Yes, of course, dear! We’re always happy for guests. That’s the business.”_ Her voice is brimming with delight, and it warms his heart.

“We’ll be there soon. Love you.”

_“You as well. Dinner will be ready.”_

He brings the phone down after she’s hung up, and sees Derek gazing warily at him. “Feel like a hot meal?”

Derek frowns. “Can I say no?”

“Nope.”

He seems less than impressed with that answer.

\-----------------------------------------

They pull up to the _Marcella Bed & Breakfast _at just past six, which makes them officially late for dinner. From the passenger seat, Derek looks up at the faded pastel blue Victorian house as if it’s going to come alive and eat him. It’s not a completely unfounded fear, John concedes. Going into that house is like going into the den of a pair of fiercely maternal snakes.

The old house is looking a little unkempt, the gardens in need of intensive tending. And the veranda, the shutters, and the fence could use a new coat of paint. John can see exactly how the spring is going to pan out for Stiles and Scott. And possibly him, if he doesn’t get reinstated as Sheriff before then.

The door flies open before he even kills the engine. His mother comes rushing out onto the porch. She’s favoring her right leg, John notices with a frown. Not unexpected with the weather, but it still pains him to see.

Marcelina Stilinski isn’t quite the mother of his memories - a statuesque woman to match her sharp eyes and an even sharper laugh. In her mid-sixties now, her striking physical presence has softened with age. The lines of her face, once severe, are now rounded with crow’s feet and laugh lines. Her hair is a careless tumble of brown, carefully constructed, curls. But her eyes are still as keen as ever, flitting over John as they race up onto the shelter of the veranda. What exactly she’s seeing, John dreads to think.

“Janek,” she greets him warmly, opening her arms to him.

“Careful, Mama,” John warns as he steps into her embrace. “Don’t want to get you wet.”

“Oh, a bit of water can’t hurt me,  _słoneczko_ .” His mother wraps him up in a tight hug, still strong, but no longer the breathtaking squeezes from his childhood. She hooks her chin on his shoulder, radiating warmth for a few seconds. She doesn’t seem to mind that the front of her dress is damp when she pulls away.  “Now, who is your guest?”

Her gaze has turned to Derek, her intense, often unnerving, focus shifting to him, taking in his soaked, worn clothes and sunken eyes. John can see the gears turn in her head; see the _exact_ moment where his mother switches from curiosity to _aggressively mothering_.

Oh. _Oh_. This could actually work.

Derek, poor kid, has no idea what he’s in for.

“Mama, this is Derek Hale.”

“Talia’s boy? Oh, _look at you_ .” Marcelina steps up closer, and John swears Derek nearly _backs away_. “You’ve grown up, haven’t you? Ach, you are soaked to the skin!” She swats harmlessly at John’s shoulder. “Show him where he can change, Janek. Do you have a change of clothes?” She’s switching between the two of them, rapid-fire mothering. Hale looks… a little dizzy. John can’t really blame him.

“I had him bring some, Mama, don’t worry. Where’s Mama Eliza?”

“She’s putting dinner on the table.” She pauses. “I seem to have left my manners in the house. I am Marcelina Stilinski.” At least, John thinks, she doesn’t try to offer Derek her hand. “You’re most welcome in our home and at our table, Derek Hale.”

“I… thank you, ma’am.”

“Good answer,” John mouths at him behind his mother’s back, and smiles innocently when she glances his way.

“Hurry and show him inside,” she tells him, “before both of you catch your deaths out in this cold rain!” She doesn’t wait for them to follow her into the house, already bustling inside, no doubt to go fuss with the table until everything is perfect for their “guest.” Once she’s gone, John lets out a quiet sigh.

“So this place is run by my mother and my mother-in-law,” he explains. “They’ve been friends almost as long as I can remember. Lived a block from each other. Had dinner twice a week and spent holidays together. The whole deal. Eliza’s basically been a second mother to me, even before Claudia and I were married, and her husband was like my second father.”

Derek is staring at him.

“Yes, son?”

“...’Janek’?” is all that he asks. Which, frankly, is not one of the many questions John had been expecting.

He cringes. “It’s _John_ , to everyone but my mother. And sometimes Mama Eliza.” He narrows his eyes into a warning glare. “And that doesn’t leave this house. Got it?”

Derek pauses for a long moment, too long. “...Sure.”

John points imperiously at him. “Just remember that. Now come on. Let’s get in before they start to wonder.” He doesn’t give Hale the chance to reconsider, steering him to the door. “Hello, house,” he mutters out of habit, rapping his knuckles against the door frame as they pass.

“ _Janusz!_ ” his mother’s voice calls out from the dining room. “Make sure Mister Hale greets the house, yes?”

“Ah, right.” He turns to Derek with a resigned shrug of one shoulder. “It’s tradition with her. Just uh, touch the door frame and say hello.”

Derek’s brows furrow, his mouth a hard, confused line. But even still, he does as asked and lifts his hand to the door frame. “Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Good enough,” John grunts. “Okay. You can change through there.” He waves at the hall bathroom, and then directs the young man towards the hallways coming off the foyer. “Laundry’s down in the basement, through that door there. Once you’re done, the dining room is down that hallway there.”

Derek looks like a cornered animal again, staring at the door to the bathroom as if it might devour him whole.

“Can I trust you not to run off the second I leave this hallway?”

That, at least, earns him a dirty look instead. “Yes,” Derek answers grudgingly.

“Great. I’ll see you in a few minutes then.” He leaves Derek to change, unbuttoning his own uniform shirt on his way to the dining room. His undershirt managed to survive without getting too wet. He hangs the shirt on the coatrack as he passes, and is fully prepared for the armful of warm laughter that launches at him the moment he enters the dining room.

“Johnny!” Mama Eliza cries happily.

John wraps her up in a tight hug, bending down to press a greeting kiss to her hair. “Hey, Mama.”

Elżbieta Wawrzaszek, in contrast to Marcelina’s tall, stately frame, is average height and all soft edges. Both Claudia and Stiles inherited her dark brown hair and bright honey-colored eyes. It falls in sleek waves into her face, now, and she huffs as she swipes it aside. Younger than Marcelina by just over six years, her age is showing even slower, although Eliza proudly bears the graying hair at her temples. John and Stiles have often been, loudly and playfully, blamed for causing them.

Eliza cups his face now, her smile bright and infectious. “You brought us a Hale for dinner?” she giggles.

“Please don’t eat him,” he jokes back.

Eliza scoffs. “ _Eat him_. Please. Everyone knows Hales are too tough for that.”

“ _Were_ too tough for that,” Marcelina remarks as she enters the room. There’s a steaming casserole dish in her hands, that she sets onto the center of the table.

“ _Celina!_ ” Eliza hisses.

“It is only the truth, Ela. Be calm.”

“ _Jesteś-- _ ”

“Okay, okay,” John interrupts. “Everyone calm down. Mama,” he coaxes, “try not to mention the _death of his family_ in the middle of dinner, okay?”

She sniffs. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. You have little faith in me,  _słoneczko_ \--” His mother freezes, at the exact same moment Eliza does. And then the both of them explode into motion. “Here he comes!” John is all but shoved towards a seat as the two women fuss with the dinner placements.

“You’ve been in the hospitality business way too long,” he mutters. The pair of them are straightening their clothes now, and John smothers a grin.

They stop just as Derek edges into the doorway, looking warmer and far less derelict in a henley and jeans without holes, but no less lost. He freezes just outside the room, and John can actually see the urge to bolt go through his expression.

“Come in!” Eliza chirps, waving him over. “Come in, come in.  _Witam!_ You were already introduced to Celina, yes? I’m Elżbieta Wawrzaszek-- just Eliza is fine, dear.” The reassurance comes naturally to her lips, but John is pleased to find that Derek doesn’t seem to be too intimidated by the name. “I’m the second half of the _Marcella B &B. _ We always love having guests, even nonpaying ones out of season. Sit, sit!”

Not for the first time, John sees an uncanny resemblance to a frightened animal in the way Derek slowly steps into the dining room. He’s never seen a man look so _primal_ and so scared at the same time. But Derek somehow manages it. The way his mothers are watching him like hawks isn’t helping the situation. John bites back a sigh. They don’t sit down until Derek does, which makes for an awkward moment when Derek stands behind his chair before realizing that.

“ _Dziękuję za kolację,_ ” he says slowly, after he’s sat down. His pronunciation isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t stumble.

John’s brows arch, the exact moment his mothers lean forward. “ _Mówi Pan po polsku?_ ” Marcelina asks quickly.

Derek blinks. “Ah…  _Tak troszkę._ I studied a little in college.” For a second, John would almost say he looks sheepish. “It’s not my strongest language.”

“Your pronunciation was strong,” Eliza reassures him, beaming.

“A little rusty, maybe,” Celina adds. “But not bad.” Her tone is casually dismissive, but not unkind. In fact, both of them are gazing at the young man in a new light. In interest.

Oh yes, John decides. This could work. Maybe so well that it’s kind of terrifying. He waits until the food has been served to dare hedging the subject. “So, are you two ready for the season to start?” he asks.

Eliza sighs. “We’re getting there. The rooms are on their way to being cleaned out. That’s easy enough. But the rest…”

Beside her, Macelina scoffs. “The roof is in need of being patched. There are leaky pipes. There are floorboards in the parlor that need repaired.” There are more things that she wants to add, by the frown on her face.

John winces just thinking about it. “And the gardens and the veranda need some work. That’s… more than I expected.” He takes a breath. “Are you going to hire a repairman?”

Both of their frowns pinch at the corners. “We’ll have to,” Eliza admits. “These aren’t things we can leave until the season starts.” She says nothing about the expense, not that she would in front of a guest. But John can read between the lines well enough. Beacon Hills is a small town, its access to the Preserve and the greater wilderness surrounding it being its main tourist draw. His mothers have always made enough from their guests, even sometimes in winter when their little town is visited by tourists looking for “small town hospitality” before driving up to visit the mountain resorts. But over the past few years, their off season funds have been stretching thinner and thinner. It makes for trying times when things like repairs have to be put into the budget.

If his plan works, however, they won’t have to worry about it this year.

“You know,” he offers casually, “Derek here used to work repair and construction back in New York.” He ignores the stares that are suddenly on him, from all three of the other people at the table. “We looked it up when you were a person of interest, son.” He aims for a polite and apologetic smile, but it comes out far more cunning and triumphant.

“Was he?” Marcelina murmurs. She’s eyeing him knowingly now, not that John expected anything less. There was no ploy in bringing Derek here, only an idea and a hope. Her gaze turns to Derek. “Were you?”

“Y...es.” It’s as close to an unsure question as John has ever heard it. “I did a lot of work when I was taking classes.  To help…” He trails off suddenly, eyes going distant, before recovering. “...pay for school.”

To help Laura, is what he doesn’t say. Derek had been (still technically _is_ ) enrolled in Columbia before returning to Beacon Hills. And that’s a steep tuition, no matter how much insurance money they got from the fire. Their records told them Laura had dropped out of her California university after the fire, but it seemed she wasn’t willing to let her little brother squander his education.

That must seem like a lifetime ago to him. He’s supposed to be going into his final semester at Columbia, stressing about work and grad school and… whatever else.

And not being the subject of a manhunt or showing up at crime scenes with minors.

_Wait._

_‘Ah, crap.’_ He’s completely forgotten about the reason he went searching for Derek in the first place. The boiling anger from before  would be out of place at the dinner table, much to John’s disappointment. He’s missed his chance for a shouting match, for outright intimidating Derek with a badge and a father’s righteous fury. But he can still work around that. He has an even greater bargaining chip now.

“Right, well,” John says, “seems to me that Derek needs a place to stay, and you need a repairman.”

“Work for room and board?” Eliza muses. She and Marcelina share a look, wordlessly appraising the suggestion.

At the other end of the table, Derek balks. “That’s not--”

John cuts him off. “Don’t even try, son.”

“But I can--”

“Ah!” This time it’s both his mothers who interrupt, both raising a hand to stop him.

“Work for room and board,” Marcelina repeats with a firm nod.

“It’s a fair bargain,” Eliza agrees. “More than fair, you’ll be doing us a favor, saving us the budget for labor costs.” He isn’t sure which has cowed Derek more, their combined mothering whirlwind or Eliza’s false compromise. “We can set you up with a room tonight, dear. It may not be season-ready, I’m sorry to say, but it’s clean and comfortable.”

When Derek doesn’t answer, John glances sidelong at him. “I’m sure he appreciates that. Don’t you, Derek?”

The man blinks, gazing at them in utter bewilderment. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says at long last.

“Good.” John reaches over to clap him on the shoulder, smile tightening at the way Derek jolts. “Now, there’re going to be a few ground rules to this arrangement. Like showing up to crime scenes with the boys. Because that? That’s not going to happen again.”

 _‘I’m giving you this chance,’_ he thinks, _‘don’t waste it.’_

He can only hope Derek recognizes a second chance when he’s given it.

\------------------------------------------------------------

 _Next:  
_ _Side B, Ch3_

 _Having a roof over his head after over a month is… odd, for Derek. Having a warm place to sleep is_ **_odd. Celina and Eliza are odd._ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 5.**

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His son is missing. Stiles is nowhere to be found and no matter what Scott or Isaac Lahey tell him, it’s not because his son is hiding out somewhere because of _stage fright._ They know something - it’s painfully obvious to see. Scott has always been a terrible liar.
> 
> And John is so goddamn _sick_ of these kids lying to him.
> 
> Luckily, he knows just who to start with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After switching over to Side B for a while, we're finally drifting back into Sheriff Stilinski's POV! It was so nice to come back to him too! We're ramping up into the s2 finale and the changes are coming faster now. From this point on things are... well, barely canon compliant. Which is JUST the way I like it!
> 
> I want to thank everyone for all the love this series has been shown. :D Every single comment, kudo, and bookmark means so much to me! Comment moderation IS on because of certain anons, but anon commenting is still active.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

_Before:_

_Side B, Ch4_

_He knew it._ **_He knew it_ ** _. He should have known. Derek should have…_  

 _“I’ve done everything you asked of me!” Scott hisses to Gerard._ **_Gerard._ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Jackson Whittemore is dead. _A child_ is dead, murdered right in front of John and everyone on that field, and no one saw a damned thing. That should be bad enough. _That_ should be the height of John’s current worries. But it’s barely even a fraction of it.

His son is missing. Stiles is nowhere to be found and no matter what Scott or Isaac Lahey tell him, it’s not because his son is hiding out somewhere because of _stage fright_. They know something - it’s painfully obvious to see. Scott has always been a terrible liar.

And John is so goddamn _sick_ of these kids lying to him.

Luckily, he knows just who to start with.

He catches a glimpse of Derek in the school’s parking lot. Surprise, surprise. Derek Hale has shown up at _another_ crime scene he has no business being at. “Goddamnit, son,” he mutters through gritted teeth and begins to make his way through the crowd. Derek is speaking with a dark-haired man, whose back is to John as he approaches. He catches Derek’s eyes over the man’s shoulder, but both men tense at the same time. He barely catches Derek’s mouth forming the word “leave,” and his unknown companion all but melts into the crowd.

John spies the straight line of the man’s nose and the angle of his jaw, just enough of a hint of a profile that he stops short.

Was that-- No. No, definitely not.

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” John all but shouts instead. Derek doesn’t quite flinch, but he looks for all the world like he’d much rather the ground open up and swallow him. “ _You_ are not supposed to be anywhere near here.”

“I came to see Isaac’s game…” is the man’s utterly weak protest.

“Don’t start with that.” He points imperiously at this man, this _foolish boy._ “We both know that’s a lie, and you know what, Derek? I’m fucking sick hearing lies. My _son_ has gone missing and you’ve got the nerve to lie to my face? You promised me, Derek!”

At the very least, Derek seems affected by his tirade. Even remorseful - not that it matters in the long run; remorseful or not, Derek Hale still continues on with his shady business that’s so strange John can’t even put a name to it yet. “It wasn’t me,” he croaks out. “You have to believe me, I wouldn’t hurt Stiles.” It’s actually a passable attempt at imploring.

“But you know something.”

Derek is tellingly silent for a moment. And John wonders how this man has ever gotten away with anything. He may not babble or stumble over his lies like both of John’s boys do, but his tells are obvious all the same. There’s no deception in his stony silence whatsoever. “Boyd and Erica have gone missing,” Derek admits at length. “I know it’s connected with what happened tonight. That’s why I’m here.”

If John thinks to wait for an elaboration on that - on who killed Jackson Whittemore, on who has taken Stiles, it becomes a futile effort. Because Derek says nothing more on the matter. “So Stiles _was_ taken,” he insists.

“Yes.”

“Okay. ...Okay.” He can work with that. He _will_ solve whatever Derek is involved in, but right now this is enough. “Do you know where?”

Derek shakes his head, dashing any hopes John had of a quick resolution to this. “But I’ll help look for him, if you’ll help me look for Erica and Boyd,” he says.

Well, maybe John can get through to this boy after all.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

They agree to split up in their search. Derek advises him to pay special attention to the neighborhoods with access to the Preserve and any of the abandoned industry yards. Exactly why is only met with vexing silence. And while John desperately wants to shake the man until he talks, he’ll take that advice if it helps him find his son faster.

He drives around for nearly two hours with little to show for it. It had been a long shot, going out with a search criteria that included “three missing teens” and “anything out of place.” But still John continues to patrol the streets of Beacon Hills. The idea of doing anything else, of sitting at his desk at the station or, even worse, _at home_ only makes him feel ill.

John’s taking Route 32 along the edge of the Preserve when the howling starts. It’s so loud that he hears it over the cruiser’s engine, almost making him put on the brakes.

Wolves? In California? No, that’s impossible. Coyotes, maybe. Or even some hounds that have gotten lost in the Preserve. But it’s _louder_ than a family of coyotes or a couple of lost dogs, and sounds like more of them. And they’re close.

Two figures burst from the treeline, and John nearly swerves left of center in shock. The headlights illuminate the pair for a brief instant. And then he really does slam on the brakes.

It’s Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd.

They look ready to bolt as John pulls the cruiser over, cringing away from the bright headlights. Now that he’s closer, John can see just how terrified they are, clinging to each other as if fighting to push the other behind them. Shaking, panicking. Their clothes are torn.

A thousand awful scenarios leap into John’s mind as he climbs out of his car. “Are you kids hurt?” he calls to them.

At least some of the fear seems to ease at his voice. “M-Mister Stilinski?” Erica calls back.

“It’s me. Do I need to call an ambulance?” He moves a few steps out of the way of the glare of the headlights, if for no other reason than to reassure the obviously frightened teenagers. “Are you alright?”

Something moves in the forest off to their right.

Their bodies snap into taut lines of tension, heads whipping to stare into the dark forest mere yards from them. The forest is eerily silent.

“Get in the car,” John quietly orders them, his eyes trained on the treeline. The teens hesitate for barely a moment before ducking behind him towards his cruiser. He hears them climb into the backseat, a flurry of fearful whispers. John stays where he is, all of his senses honed on the shadowed forest, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He can’t see anything past the first foot of underbrush. But every instinct he has tells him that _something_ is out there. His hand lowers to his holster, flicking it open.

“Sheriff,” Boyd calls from the car. “Sheriff Stilinski, please get in the car.”

“ _Please_ ,” Erica begs. Their voices are desperate, high-pitched and afraid. “ _Please_.”

John lingers for another moment, breaking out in chills, before he thinks better of it. “...Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he concedes, and hurries back into the driver’s seat. The cruiser is swung around with more force than is probably necessary, and soon they’re speeding off back towards Beacon Hills.

There’s only the sound of the wind whipping past the car outside. John wonders, for a dizzying instant, if he’d somehow just imagined the howling.

But there are two scared, hurt teens huddled in his backseat. John watches them in the rearview mirror. They shake and cling to each other, sometimes their mouths move in tense whispers. Their faces are drawn and dirt-smudged. And while John can’t see any wounds, they move as if they’re both in pain, and there are faint bloodstains on their ripped clothes.

“Should I take you both to the hospital?”

The pair shake their heads at him.

“You’re not hurt?”

“No, sir,” Boyd answers. John wants to see a lie there, but there’s only fear.

“Alright… want me to take you both home then?”

“No!” This time the answer comes from both of them in matching panicked cries.

“Sheriff, please. I don’t want them to see--” Erica stammers, hands tucked close to her chest protectively. “They’ll follow us home. I can’t-- Our families--” She takes a deep breath, and John can physically see her pulling herself together. “We need to see Derek.”

And John really shouldn’t be surprised by that anymore, that these kids all answer to Derek. And yet it’s surprise and horror that fills him. “Who’s following you?” he asks. That’s the most pressing matter. He can sit them all down and order them to give him some _goddamn_ _answers_ when everyone is out of danger.

Including his son.

The teenagers are frustratingly silent to his question. It seems to be another thing they’ve picked up from Derek Hale - the inability to share important information. If John wasn’t so worried about them, he might have considered taking them straight down to the station for some _real_ questioning.

“Did Stiles tell you to come get us? Did he make it out?” Vernon Boyd’s hesitant questions have John swiveling around in the driver’s seat even before he finishes.

“Were you with my son?” John asks, his voice low. When he feels the lapse back into silence coming, he grits his teeth. “Listen to me. I don’t want lies and I don’t want silence. I _need_ to find my son. Do you know where Stiles is?”

Boyd’s jaw clenches, and John can see the conflict being worked out in his face. “They let him go before we got out,” the boy says at last. “They said they were letting him go. You haven’t…” And now he looks truly _worried_ , which does nothing to ease the panic that is rising in John’s throat. “You haven’t found him yet?”

This time it’s John that falls into telling silence. In the rearview mirror he can see the two of them hunch closer together, sharing glances that are now dreadful and far, far too old on their teenage faces. John’s hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

And then his phone rings, startling all three of them.

“Stilinski,” he grunts after fumbling to retrieve the phone from his coat.

 _“I found him.”_ Hale’s curt voice in his ear sends his heart rocketing, doing a dizzying swoop that actually _hurts_.

“Stiles?”

Derek hums a low affirmative, but it’s not a happy sound.

“Where?” he chokes out.

 _“Greenvale Park,”_ Derek says roughly. And then he utters the words that might as well drag the soul from his body: _“He’s hurt, Sheriff.”_ His voice is thick when he says it, as if each word is like a knife between his ribs. But John barely registers it over the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

“I’ll be there,” he says, and hangs up without further warning. The phone is carelessly tossed onto the passenger seat. He flicks the sirens on and guns the engine. “Alright back there,” he says over his shoulder. “Hold on. We have a detour to make.”

The questions, he decides, can be answered later.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Greenvale is nearly pitch black at this time of night. The city park is lit by only a few lamps, and is generally deserted after sunset. The Preserve and the more abandoned sections of the industrial districts are more attractive to both the nefarious population and to teenagers looking for stupid thrills after curfew, and so the now-familiar black Camaro is easy to spot in the otherwise empty visitor’s lot. It’s not until he rolls the cruiser up alongside it that he sees its driver. And his son.

Stiles is sitting hunched against the concrete garden box that’s across from the cars. He’s still in his lacrosse uniform, a detail that somehow baffles John, as if it’s unthinkable that Stiles has only been missing for a few hours. Derek is a black shape crouching in front of him, invisible until the cruiser floods the area with light. They might have been talking, John considers distractedly as he throws the car into park. But they’re… close. They’re in each other’s space.

And there’s the fact that Derek has a hand cupped around the back of Stiles’ neck.

The sight has John frowning as he lets Boyd and Erica out of the back. It’s not the first time he’s seen casual, intimate touches between his son and Derek. He’s not sure he would call it a _problem_ by itself. But considering how Stiles keeps insisting that he’s not wrapped up in whatever mess Hale is in…

Well okay, it _is_ a problem.

It’s not until John moves closer that Stiles raises his head, and he gets a good look at his son’s face. _That_ stops him in his tracks. He looks even paler than usual in the car’s headlights. It makes the bloody side of his face stand out so much more. His cheek is scraped and inflamed, blood pooling under the skin where it hasn’t broken. It goes from his brow all the way to his jaw, like someone has struck him repeatedly. Stiles is keeping that eye closed, and at _best_ it’s going to be a horrible black eye in a few hours. At worst… John doesn’t even want to think about it. His lip is split in more than one place on that side, and there’s dried blood that has trickled from his nose all the way down to his chin.

Stiles’ expression pulls tight in pain as he stands, favoring his side like his ribs are hurting him. Derek rises with him, still standing only a step away, as if he’s ready to catch the boy if his legs give out. And John cannot be blamed for how his throat goes tight. Or how the anger and the pain chokes him for a moment.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles rasps.

Something in him _breaks_ , and he lunges forward to pull Stiles into a hug, mumbling an apology when his son winces in pain. He wants to cry. He wants to _rage_. But mostly he just wants to take his son home and lock all the doors - keep him safe.

“Who did this?” he hisses through clenched teeth. He reaches out to cup Stiles’ chin, gently examining the scrapes and forming bruises and praying that nothing’s broken.

Stiles’ eyes go down and away. It throws the injured side of his face into even starker contrast with his pale skin and glassy eyes. “There… There were these guys, you know? From the other team. They were pissed off and sore over the game. And I was running my mouth, y’know? Like always.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” he growls in warning. All it is is _another_ lie. There’d been no time between the game ending in Jackson Whittemore’s death and Stiles going missing for members of the opposing team to grab anyone, let alone three teenagers. And especially not to keep them captive for hours.

“Dad, seriously--”

“So they grabbed you, huh? _And_ Mister Boyd? _And_ Miss Reyes?” Stiles isn’t the only one that flinches. But, predictably, no one offers an explanation. And just like that the rage comes pouring out of his mouth, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw starts to ache. “I swear, I’m going to find out who did this, and I’m going to _pistol whip_ those sick bastards so hard they won’t know _what day it is_ \--”

“ _Dad!_ ” Stiles’ voice pitches high. “Dad, I’m okay,” he pleads.

“You are _not_ \-- okay, Stiles.” And to John’s horror, his voice cracks around the words. “Look at you. You’re not okay.”

Stiles’ eyes take on a telling wet gleam, and it reminds John so much of the little boy he’d scoop up in his arms to soothe skinned knees and bumped heads. He wants to badly to do it _now_ , but there’s so many things in the way. Too many secrets and too many lies. Including the one’s spewing from his son’s mouth even now. “I will be. I just wanna go home.”

“We should be taking you to a hospital.”

“It’s not that serious. I promise. It’s just a few bumps and bruises.”

John relents, not because he wants to, but because he’s just tired of fighting. “Okay. But I’m going to have Melissa look at you when we get home. Got it?”

He relieved when Stiles doesn’t fight him on that one, only nodding with a soft, “Okay, Dad.” He slips past John, walking stiffly towards his classmates. Erica is the first to reach him, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug that makes Stiles suck in a sharp breath that probably hurts just as much as the embrace does.

“Sorry,” Erica mumbles into his shoulder. She loosens her grip only fractionally.

“Nah,” Stiles huffs back. “S’okay. I’m pretty sturdy for being the squishy one. Gotta show some love for Catwoman, right?” He steps out of the girls arms, his eyes turning to Boyd. He seems to move before his thoughts catch up with him, as Stiles is wont to do, and he throws an arm around the taller boy’s shoulders. Both of them stiffen, for about half a moment. And then Boyd carefully wraps an arm around Stiles’ back for a decidedly awkward squeeze.

“Uh.” Stiles clears his throat as he steps back. “You guys okay? I was going to… I tried to call for help after they threw me out, but, y’know.” He waves his hand, and with an icy jolt John can see that his fingers are stiff and bloody, the faintest scrape of a shoe tread pressed into the back of his hand.

“We’re okay,” Erica says quietly. Her mouth opens, and closes the instant her eyes land on John. “We… um, one of them-- _he_ let us go.”

“ _He_ \--?” Predictably, Stiles goes quiet as well once he remembers John is there. He turns back to Erica and his hands to a series of gestures that… don’t seem to mean anything. “Really?” he says in a pseudo-whisper. “He just _let you go_.”

“He said ‘you’d be surprised what side you end up on,’” the girl replies.

“Oh. Good. Great. Does he want point for not being as much of an asshole as he usually is?”

Do they think they’re being subtle?

“Alright, enough,” John declares irritably. “Everyone pack up. You’ll be heading to my place tonight.” His words are met with silent stares. “If Mister Boyd and Miss Reyes refuse to go home, I’m not letting them roam the streets. And no, Derek, you cannot keep them tonight.” The young man’s shoulders hunch, looking particularly guilty. “You’ll be staying with me. We’ll call your parents in the morning. Got it?”

They nod, eyes downcast. None of them, it seems, want to look him in the eye.

Horrible liars. The lot of them.

\-----------------------------------------

 

John lets Erica and Boyd pile into Derek’s backseat, because he’s sure his silent glares and express instructions to follow him home are enough to keep Derek from running off with the two teens. The ride back to the house is _awkward_ to say the least. Stiles slumps against the door, visibly drawing in on himself for the interrogation he knows is coming. And John doesn’t know how to ask without getting lies or making his son shut down entirely in return. So he refrains from the questions buzzing incessantly around his head. Leaving them to sit in painful silence.

 _‘Who hurt you like this?’_ he wants to ask Stiles, over and over again until Stiles actually gives him an answer. _‘Just what have you gotten mixed up in? How does it connect to the murders - not just the ones perpetrated by Matt Daehler, but the ones since the beginning of the year as well?’_

He’s not going to get any of those answers, he knows that. At the very least, the suspicion that Stiles was involved with Matt Daehler has been long put to rest. If anything Stiles and Scott had seemed interested in _apprehending_ the other boy. At first, it’d only seemed like one of their invasive fascinations with a case involving their classmates. But now...

Now John wishes he had put his foot down harder, and kept them completely out of the case.

Once home, he helps Stiles from the car, wincing in worry and sympathy as his son’s face goes bone white with pain. “It’s okay, Dad,” he soothes, as if _John_ is the one who needs comforting. “It’s just sore.”

His voices lodges in his throat, making arguing difficult. It’s all he can do to hover at Stiles’ side as they all head up the front steps and into the house. Their guests haven’t said a word since getting out of Derek’s Camaro. They stand in the doorway once inside, quiet and watchful. John would call them stoic, if not for the fact that Boyd and Erica keep huddling into Derek’s space.

They continue to hover even as John beckons them into the living room, where he goes about fixing them places to sleep. Erica can easily fit into Stiles’ sleepwear, but Boyd is a bit harder to provide for, being both broader and taller than John has ever been. He ends up giving the boy the biggest pair of sleep pants he owns in hopes that it will fit comfortably.

“Thank you,” Boyd murmurs, with this awed little gleam in his eye. As if John has offered him something much more valuable than a place to sleep for the night. Erica has the same look reflected in her eyes when John presents her with her borrowed sleepwear. The pair of them share a glance with Derek, as if John is a strange mystery the other man can somehow solve.

John, overwhelmed with worry and questions, leaves them to puzzle it out, whatever it is.

Melissa isn’t answering her phone - odd, since she’s not on shift. He’d just seen her at the lacrosse game. Two tries later and still nothing, John settles for leaving her a short voicemail for her to call him as soon as possible and tries to squash the anxiety knotting in his stomach.

“Bullshit. I’m fine,” Stiles’ low hiss comes from the living room.

“ _Stiles._ ” And that’s Derek, admonishing his son in a tone that he recognizes from his own - part weary exasperation, part threat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Uh. Right. Okay, sure. Keep telling yourself that, big guy.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’ve got that surly, danger brow thing going on there. It doesn’t mean you’re getting what you want. I’m _fine_.”

“I wouldn’t call this… fine,” Erica says next. “Boyd and I were _there_ , remember? This looks pretty bad, Stiles.”

“He hurt you to prove a point, Stiles,” Derek begins again.

But this time Stiles cuts him off, his voice harsh and desperate in a way that John hasn’t heard in years. “You seriously think this was meant to hurt _me--?!_ ”

He returns to the living room to find his son shirtless and going through the contents of their first aid kit. They all go quiet the moment he enters the room, but that’s not what has John pulling up short - has icy fury curling around his heart all over again. There are forming bruises all along Stiles’ side. Nasty, painful looking things that speak of bruised ribs, if not fractured ones, and will be horrifying and dark come morning. And, as John takes a subtle step to the side, a vivid red boot print squarely between his shoulder blades.

It’s a man’s footprint. Too large for a teenage boy, unless they’re talking about one who’s matured fast.

But John is pretty sure the teenage style runs more towards combat boots these days, and not pointed toe boots.

Stiles has a packaged alcohol wipe between his teeth, in the process of passing a rolls of bandages, gauze pads, and an ointment tube to Boyd. His face is clean of blood now, revealing the inflamed, raw skin. Erica is standing beside him with a pack of frozen vegetables and a towel, face drawn and eyes sharp. He watches with a kind of sick fascination as his son cleans the scrapes on his face and hands, taking the burn of the alcohol with only a mild hiss, and starts slather the ointment on the broken skin and bandage them with ease.

Stiles is… frighteningly proficient at patching himself up. And not just in a “I learned how to ice sore muscles after practice” sort of way. John dreads to consider where he learned it.

Through it all, Derek paces the length of the living room, shoulders hunched and hackles raised. His body is a line of tension. An anxious predator. His eyes flick from the Stiles, Boyd, and Erica, to John, to the windows and back again. Over and over in an endless cycle. As if he’s expecting something horrible to come crashing through the living room windows.

But John can’t help but notice the way Derek, even as he paces, never seems to stray far from the teens for long. Whenever he stops by them, he _hovers_ , always reaching out to squeeze Erica’s shoulder or Boyd’s arm, or even just the briefest brush of a touch against their sleeves. John catches him reaching out to Stiles on one pass, but the move is quickly aborted, Derek’s hand curling into fist and returning to his side as if he’s been stung. It’s a peculiar little sequence that Stiles doesn’t even appear to notice - too busy cursing under his breath as he fiddles with wrapping his hand.

John watches it all without a word, mind fitting his previous observations together and coming up with a _new_ question:

Just what _is_ Derek’s relationship with his son?

 _‘Ah, shit,’_ he thinks despairingly. It’s just one more thing to add to the growing pile of topics he and Stiles need to have an honest discussion about. This one no less distressing than the last.

Derek’s phone chimes as things are starting to settle down. The simple sound has all the effect of sucking the air out of the room. The kids go tense, watching avidly as the older man slips the phone from his pocket and glares at the screen for a moment. He taps something out, his jaw clenching into a painfully taut line.

“I have to go,” he says evenly.

No one asks him where or why. John figures they don’t have to at this point. Whatever strange business they’re all involved in isn’t done for the night.

“Son,” John says wearily. “Don’t let anyone catch you out tonight.”

Derek flinches as violently as if John has struck him.

“My deputies are out looking for whoever killed Jackson Whittemore,” he continues. His meaning is clear: if Derek is arrested for whatever nefarious shit he’s going off to do, John isn’t going to protect  him.

Derek stuffs his hands into his pocket, straightening his stance defensively. “Yes, sir. Thanks… for looking after them,” he ventures after a length of silence.

 _‘Not doing this for you,’_ John wants to reply. At least… it would only be half a lie. He watches Derek the whole way out, even as that showy Camaro pulls out onto the street. After that, the house is painfully silent. The kids don’t make a sound, just stare out the window even after Derek’s car is long gone.

“Well,” he attempts to break the silence, “I can order us some pizza. It’s late, but you three could use some food, I bet.”

No one answers him.

“Just, uh, get comfortable. I’ll go place the order.”

“You’d better be ordering veggie pizza for yourself!” Stiles calls as he leaves the room.

Typical. Beaten and bloody and still a _mother hen._ “Whatever, kid.”

He can hear them talking in hushed tones while he’s on the phone, too quiet for him to make out anything. The tv comes on, and everything quiets down. At first, John thinks nothing more of it.

And then, John realizes a little too late, it’s _too_ quiet.  

By the time John comes back into the living room, they’re already gone. Only empty space greets him.

He heaves a sigh.

“Shit.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

_Next:_

_Side B, Ch5_

_Everything about the rest of the evening is a blur. Until it all comes to a crashing halt, with Gerard on his deathbed, the kanima impaled on his claws, Jackson Whittemore’s miraculous revival and Scott…_  

 **_Scott_ ** _. Fuck._  

_Just thinking his name has Derek feeling ill all over again._

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

**END CHAPTER 6.**


End file.
